


Cannoli

by novoentrudo, restlessjude



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Coercion, Dubious Consent, Facials, Homophobic Language, M/M, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoentrudo/pseuds/novoentrudo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessjude/pseuds/restlessjude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate version of what might have happened at the end of S01E04 ("Arkham").</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cannoli

**Author's Note:**

> Written with help from a friend (who will be added as a co-author as soon as her account is made). "Vicks" is referred to by name in the episode; the other two names are non-canon. Warnings for coercion, blackmailing, homophobic language, and very dubious consent.

As Oswald makes his way up the stairs, he can't help but let a bit of pride show in his posture. The robbery went off without a hitch, and he's finally out of those dingy kitchen rags, as well — he has to admit, the suit is a far more appropriate look for him.

It's so nice when plans finally come together, he thinks. Now all he'll need to do is reconvene with his men, make sure everything's alright on their end, too. The box of cannoli jostles only very slightly with his uneven steps, although even his leg doesn't feel quite as stiff as usual.

He opens the door to that empty room, but barely gets a chance to step inside when those three men point their guns at him. The motion makes a clicking sound, the little scrabble-sounds of insect limbs, of vermin. Though he keeps his back as tall as possible and doesn't drop the nicely-ribboned box in his hands, there's still the shake of fear inside his stomach. He doesn't need to be educated on the wiles of turncoats, after all. The moment drags on too long — (he should be happy, right? Good reflexes — they're doing their job) — but they finally lower their guns. He keeps his sigh of relief silent.

He doesn't remember their names. The bearded one (was it Val? Vincent?) is the first to say something. An exaggerated exhalation, followed by, "Scared us there for a second!", and now his expression's jovial once more. "We do good, or what?"

Oswald sits down across from them, on an upside-down bucket. Distanced. Their world is one that he'll never be a part of; he's never been one for physical things, relying only on reflexes and deception to get the job done. That kind of camaraderie, the way that blue-collar men talk on the street — it reminds him of the jocks back in school, and he can't help but hold that same lingering resentment towards these men, as well, though his inflection hides it.

"Excellent work, my friends. You were very convincing." Oswald smiles and places the box on the floor.

The more excitable of the three men nods and gestures. "Yeah, I'll bet that manager thought so. Ain't that right, Vickie?" — and then some other emphatic gesture, a celebratory sound. The way that they'd always laughed after pushing him down in school. Another slight pinch inside, for a different reason this time.

The other two men go back to counting the money, but the bearded man — Vicks, apparently — his gaze lingers. And there's something predatory in it, more so than Oswald would expect, even from a hired goon. Oswald suddenly feels very aware of how much smaller he is. Unarmed. Should he be worried?

"Got any other joints you want us to rob, let us know. There's good money in this." Vicks says, finally.

The youngest of the men doesn't look up from counting. "Good money." A long pause.

"But I mean." Vicks continues. "Lotta' jobs out there already."

The bald man hasn't said a word yet, but he leans over to Vicks, whispers something. Oswald still has that smile on his face, more of a defense mechanism at this point than anything else. Something automatic, a learned response in this line of work.

"Lotta guys who'd pay good money to know what you gave us good money to do, y'know?" The bald man speaks now. Voice a bit deeper than the other two, a bit older, more mature.

Oswald's smile starts to droop, just slightly. He'd taken an acting class once in high school — he hadn't realized at the time just how much it'd come in handy in this line of work. But he knows that he's no longer "smiling with the eyes," as his drama teacher had once said, words so emphatic, over-enunciated.

"You, uhh...think you can convince us to keep our mouths shut?" Vicks says now, spreading his legs very slightly. He puts his own stack of money down at his feet, gun still close at hand, though.

Oswald manages to catch his smile from wilting further. He's quite sure now that his consternation would be visible to anyone meeting his gaze; he supposes it's fortunate he didn't scoot the bucket any closer to these men, even more so that their skills are more physical and less cerebral in nature. Yes, men such as these had little capacity for looking beyond the surface — he knows their type well, understands that their concerns are largely of the physical kind.

Sparing a glance at the ribbon-bedecked box in his hands, he makes a quick mental calculation, then lifts his chin again, beaming a renewed smile at them. "Don't worry, gentlemen. I'm sure we can come to an agreeable arrangement."

He catches the look that passes briefly between Vicks and the bald one, the restless tapping of the youthful one's fingers on the barrel of his weapon. Vicks — by now, Oswald has him pegged as the mouthpiece of the trio — is the first to break the ensuing silence. "Yeah? What'd you have in mind?"

Oswald's memory takes him back to those school days yet again, except this time he's not thinking of drama class, but rather, remembering the way he'd wrapped his lips around the cocks of the more amenable of the bullies, their thick fingers buried in his hair — and he blinks a quick two-flutter, hopes he isn't blushing as he looks down.

It's the bald man who stands up now, walks over. Heavy footsteps over floorboards loosened by the years; like this whole city, it's something pushed together out of spare parts and leftovers, gaps large enough for fingertips to slip through.

"Hold on." The man says, raising a hand in a gesture meant to quieten Vicks. "I think I know what you can do for us." He stands just in front of Oswald now, and the black-haired man can do little more than look up. He feels so small; even the switchblade in his suit-pocket offers little reassurance. He lets out a stifled laugh despite himself.

"O-oh?" Oswald looks down, fidgets with the fabric of his pants leg a bit. The bucket is hardly comfortable, and his hips are really starting to hurt. He won't be sitting for too long, though, he supposes. He wishes he could seem more bothered by their attempt blackmail, really. He's not surprised by it — though he hadn't prepared for this exact contingency. Still, he wishes he could find it in himself to muster up an indignant frown, the faintest hints of disapproval. The edges of his lip flutter up and down, unsure of whether they want to shift into neutrality or betray the newfound warmth that's misting its way up his chest.

He already has a suspicion of what the man's next suggestion will be, and he doesn't have long to wait before he's proven correct. When that affirmation comes, he's almost relieved that his earlier notions weren't simply his own wishful thinking.

"Yeah." The man's voice drops in pitch slightly; it's barely noticeable, really, but Oswald's never been one to let the fine details escape his notice. "I think you'll like it too. You know, I can tell your type. I knew what you were the minute I laid eyes on you." The man's thumb hooks in his belt loop; his hand comes to rest suggestively close to the place where his trousers bulge slightly. It's funny, really, the way history has such a way of repeating itself.

The pale man can feel the attention of the other two, knows they're focused on the scene being played out before them, without even needing to look their way. He wonders if they'll really go along with the other man's plans for him, then wonders if they've talked this out beforehand. Oswald knows he's hardly Gotham's most eligible bachelor, but he's also very aware how little that matters; he's become familiar with the way stronger men take what they want, and what these men want is power. He assumes it must hurt their pride, on some level, taking orders from someone like himself. How they must resent him for calling the shots, all the while knowing they never would.

He can allow them this one small concession.

Oswald closes his eyes as he feels the man's hand come to rest on the top of his head. That, he hadn't expected, and it feels just like those memories that he still returns to in his hot-breathed ministrations before bed. That touch is light, but firm, and when he opens his eyes, his own hand is already raised, reaching toward the other man's fly. The bald man lets out a deep breath and pushes his hips so very, very slightly forward. Like Oswald needs the encouragement. Do they really think that he's going to run away?

He really should know these mens' names, shouldn't he.

The other two remain silent, and Oswald doesn't look at them as he takes the man's zipper-pull between his thumb and index finger. What must they be thinking?

When he pulls the zipper down, it's a delicate kind of motion, and he hopes that the bald man can't see how his hand is shaking. Nervousness, above all else. He wonders if they'll read it as anticipation.

 _Should_ he say something?

"Right…" He just mutters, laughing once again, quieter this time.

If the man towering over him notices his little chuckle, he gives no indication. Oswald supposes everyone who's worked with him is used to his idiosyncrasies by now.

"Hey Reg, you were right. You didn't have to do much convincing." Vicks half-laughs these words out; after a few seconds the young one joins in, too — a bit faltering, and Oswald can't help but notice he stays where he is. But now, Reg (he wouldn't have taken this man for a Reginald) is putting pressure on the top of his head, encouraging him forward, down. He lets himself be guided off the bucket, to his knees. It's not much more comfortable a position, but that warm feeling is spreading and he can find no complaints.

Reg's cock is warm, too, when he pulls it out from his opened fly — quite warm indeed, and full already, although still soft. Oswald knows how to remedy that, though; half a dozen firm-yet-gentle strokes and it's stiff enough to point towards his lips, and he's eager, so eager already, to take the bait. He doesn't bother with any teasing kisses or the like; Reg doesn't seem like the sort who could appreciate something slow and tantalizing.

He's rewarded with nothing but a small grunt as he sucks the head into his mouth. Beyond this, the room is dead silent, like even the walls are holding their breath and watching this happen. It's almost unbearable; he wishes one of them would crack wise, relieve some of the tension, even at his expense. Reg shifts his weight to his other leg as Oswald lets his tongue feel out every curve and ridge; he couldn't be sure of the other man's enjoyment if not for the slight twitch in response, the carefully measured but audible breathing above him.

Reg is fully hard now, and Oswald takes him further, the thickness of the larger man's cock heavy upon his tongue. He starts to bob back and forth, resting one hand on Reg's hip for support. Reg seems to tense a little bit at this feeling (too much intimacy, perhaps), but as Oswald's slurping becomes louder, and as the head of Reg's cock starts to hit the back of his throat with each push back and forth of Oswald's head, so too does the other man relax. Those fingers nestled in Oswald's hair no longer feel quite so firm — it seems that Reg is starting to enjoy himself. Oswald would smile, if his lips weren't already preoccupied.

 _I think you'll like it too._ Oswald closes his eyes, and replays the words that Reg had said. _I can tell your type._ It makes his own cock stiffen inside his crisp suit pants. But he knows better than to touch it, no, has to keep up pretenses, after all. Can't let his hands clutch the other man's hips with too much desperation, can't look too excited about this, and certainly can't reach down, stroke himself in time with it all-

"Here, why don't you, umm, come over this way…" Reg says as he steps away, his cock sliding out of Oswald's mouth with a slurping pop. The smaller man can already feel the wetness of saliva and pre-come on his lower lip — and he breathes in and out a few times, though he didn't even realize he'd needed to catch his breath.

"You don't want my friends to feel left out, do you?"

"R-right…" Oswald wipes his lips on the back of his hand.

He makes his way forward, crawling on his hands and knees, and it's an awkward, dragging kind of motion. One loose floorboard creaks beneath his weight, but that sound becomes muffled in his ears — all he can hear now is his own heartbeat. He must look desperate, pathetic. His leg's already starting to hurt, but as he makes his way towards the window (with Vicks pushing the bag of money to the side), all he can think is that if he's lucky, he won't get any scuffs on his new suit. The last thing he needs is to hear his mother nagging him for that.

If she only knew.

Reg steps behind Oswald, closing him in between the three men. Vicks and the third, yet unnamed man are still sitting. Reg gestures towards the unnamed man. Oswald looks up at him, briefly — he's younger than the rest. Attractive, too — he wouldn't need to work a job like this, which means that he must want to. He's still inexperienced, though, that much Oswald can tell. Under all of this man's earlier enthusiasm, he seems unacquainted with the seamier side of criminal dealings.

"Here, Joshie-boy, why don't you give him a try?" Reg grins and squeezes the other man — Josh, apparently — on the shoulder, a menace to his geniality. Oswald wonders if he's pulled this trick before, or if Oswald's the first to seem desperate enough to go along with it. Neither would surprise him, really.

So, Josh is the third guy's name. And so Josh stands up, glances over at Reg, and then at Vicks, before he looks down at Oswald and smiles. And suddenly he doesn't look quite so innocent. It's strange, that Oswald can see as soon as he finally does make eye contact, that Josh has just learned that one can always use power to get what one wants. In this city, anything one wants.

Oswald's cock continues to strain against the fabric of his clothing. He's so hard that it almost hurts, and that heat radiates up through his stomach and around his lungs with every breath of cool-air-turning-warm inside that room. How he hopes the pinstripes and the folds will hide his reaction to all of this.

And so he unzips Josh now, reaches his hand inside his pants to pull out a more than half-hard cock. The skin is warm, the head a soft shade of pink, his pubic hair thick, bristly.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" And now Josh is the one teasing him. Reg must be proud.

"Please..." is all that Oswald can reply, his voice already a little ragged.

"Yeah. You wanted this." Josh nods his head slightly, looking half-dazed, and Oswald can tell he's already getting drunk on the power of having another man on his knees in front of him, practically begging for the chance to give him pleasure. He wonders if the other two men in the room even exist anymore to this panting almost-stranger whose cock is rapidly becoming fully erect in his hand, whose gaze is getting foggier, more heated, by the second, until Oswald can almost feel it burning a hole in him.

Oswald's mouth falls open, a reply choking in his throat, but instead he leans forward, swallows Josh halfway down with his first mouthful, a startled "f-fuck" rewarding him from above as the cock hitting his throat pulses upwards once. So responsive. He almost wants to tangle his fingers in Josh's pubes, give them a sharp yank just to see how he'd react to that, but he'd better be careful, better not overplay his hand here. The little switchblade presses against him through the fabric of his suit, but these men still have guns close at hand. He'll try not to forget himself too much, even if he already knows that's a losing battle.

Josh threads both hands into his hair, hips thrust forward, and Oswald's skin feels too-tight and hot under his clothing, his lips slick and swollen as his head's pushed impatiently forward and back and forward again — it's almost too much, and he can't help but gag a small bit as his hand fumbles at Josh's hip, bracing himself as best he can. It's obvious that Josh won't last long at all at this pace, and Oswald feels a small surge as the thought occurs to him that he might be this young man's very first; but it fades quickly. He can't imagine someone with those good looks managing to leave their teenage years with purity intact. Not in Gotham. He certainly didn't, after all.

"Hey, Joshie, c'mon man. Ain't even had my turn yet," comes the grumble from the right of him. There's a lightheartedness to Vicks' voice that suggests he's trying to hold on to his machismo, but Oswald can hear how it barely covers up the raggedness underneath. He wonders if Vicks is as hard and hungry as he himself is — he's practically aching to be touched now, and he wishes they'd shove him down further, his cheek against the floorboards as they tore down his trousers and fucked him, but he knows that's not going to happen, now or ever. So instead he sits back, his whole body tingling. He watches Vicks stand up and take a pace toward him as Josh backs off reluctantly, cock glossy against the black backdrop of his clothing.

He's truly caged in by them now, he thinks as Vicks presses close to him, as they all loom large around his thin, crouching body. He can feel the heat, the tension radiating off Vicks already, even before he frees his cock from his trousers and takes it in hand. He's a bit smaller than the other two, but thick, the crown flushed red, and Oswald's mouth is watering. There's an abrupt exhalation above him, a sort of half-laugh. "You really are a desperate little faggot, huh." A chuckle circles its way around him; he winces at the same time as a fresh new wave of arousal blossoms inside him.

Oswald doesn't reply; he feels that if he was to glance upward now, was to focus too hard on the look that must be in Vicks' eyes, then it might be all over, he'd lose himself then and there — though whether in red-faced shame or mindless lust, that he cannot be sure of. But he doesn't need to answer in words — he makes his response clear in the way that he licks the underside of Vicks' cock for just a second, the head leaving a slick line of pre-come just above his upper lip, before he takes Vicks in his mouth in full. Vicks is strong, salty, and his taste mixes with the pre-come residue left on his tongue by Josh and Reg.

With his eyes closed once more, Oswald focuses on the texture of Vicks' shaft, the fullness of those veins, and the musky, sweaty smell as his sharp nose presses into the other man's pubes. Though he tries to wrap his lips as tight as he can, focus that suction, he's really getting sloppy now — he can feel it in the way his chin is starting to feel wet, in the way that the sounds of his slurping fills the room. Wet, eager, slick.

One of the other men (Oswald can't even tell which one) makes some kind of low, groaning sound, and in response, the smaller man reaches his hands up, fumbles without looking, and manages to take a cock in each hand, doing his best to stroke them in time. He's no pro at this, and he knows that his motions are clumsy, uncoordinated, but he doesn't care. If they expect perfection, they can get one of Fish's girls, he thinks with an acerbic twinge. But all the same, he lets his tongue flutter up and down the underside of Vicks' cock with each push in and out — this is what men like, right?

And for a second, he wishes that it didn't have to be that way. Getting his kicks with guys like this, or finding someone to push him around in the alley behind some seedy bar — and it's not that he wants some sweet fairytale romance, either. Love and courtship has never had any appeal to him, even as a game. But then he thinks of Jim; what would he think if he saw him there with a cock in each hand, pre-come dripping down his chin? Would he try to save him, or just gaze at him in disgust once he saw the erection pressing upward from between his legs?

In his rumination, Oswald must have let his teeth graze a bit too hard across Vicks' skin, because now the larger man grabs him by the hair and jerks his head back, and Oswald is forced to stare at him, pale eyes watering. There's a thick string of saliva and pre-come that still connects his lips to Vicks' cock, but then the strand breaks, that fluid hitting his lapel. His leg is sore as hell, sharp pangs traveling up and down his muscles, collecting in a point just above his kneecap. But he can't sit down on his calves; needs to keep himself angled like that to keep his mouth level with their cocks.

All the same, Vicks' grasp is really putting a lot of pressure on his bad leg, and he can't help but bare his teeth. He must look animalistic, wild and savage, some rabid thing, but Vicks doesn't break his cold gaze. "Watch the teeth, pal." Oswald can feel the anger simmering just behind those words, wonders if it's all because of him or if this is just the way Vicks goes through life. The grip tilting his head back abruptly loosens, nearly throwing him off-balance, but he catches himself and notices the way Vicks' other hand is squeezing the base of his cock. It won't be long now, and he almost moans aloud at the realization. He can practically taste that thick and salty liquid on his tongue already, but Reg's hand is cupping his cheek and turning him roughly around; this time, he really does fall off-kilter and the hand that was stroking Josh stops him on his way to a faceplant.

Reg pulls him back up and onto his cock with no regard, thrusting urgently into his mouth until Oswald's eyes are shedding tears, and it's perfect and humiliating and then Reg is erupting down his throat with a long, low groan, his beefy hand pushing his head further down until his nose is practically pressed against the bigger man's pubic bone. Reg comes so far down the smaller man's throat that Oswald doesn't even get a chance to really taste it, but all the same, he swallows automatically, eyes going wide. Reg holds him there for a while after the spurts stop coming, until his breathing evens out and his cock is starting to go soft in Oswald's mouth. When he's finally released, Oswald barely has time to take a deep gulp of air before Josh steps up to him and pushes past his lips.

Josh doesn't stop thrusting, even as his orgasm hits him and he's shooting warm jets into Oswald's mouth, a series of surprised-sounding gasps coming from him as well. Both of Josh's hands are in his hair, his hips pumping in time and Oswald briefly thinks he might choke. When he finally lets go, Oswald allows himself to sit back on his heels, closing his eyes and savoring the taste lingering on his tongue.

"You ain't done yet," comes the grunt from his right. "Look at me, fag."

Oswald turns and looks up at Vicks. Vicks has a nasty smirk on his face, his stroking firm enough to make the head of his cock almost purple in the room's dim light. Time seems to hang, and it's hard for Oswald to tell how long he kneels there, mouth open, tongue slightly extended. The cold air on his skin makes his throat and insides feel even hotter in contrast. His mouth tastes salty, slightly astringent, and it's awful, the way it lingers in his throat — the way the fluid coats the back of his mouth, how he can smell it on his own gasping breaths.

He'll have to clean up before he gets home, he thinks. His mother may remain clueless to a great many things, but this is one detail she'd be sure to recognize, he thinks with a slight fluttering of his eyelids.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna-" Vicks' face pulls back into a grimacing sneer, eyes screwed shut, and Oswald closes his own eyes in response.

Vicks doesn't finish his statement, instead letting out a choked gasp as his hips buck and he leans forward just slightly. The first spurt of his orgasm lands on Oswald's tongue, and it makes the smaller man wince at the sensation of that hot fluid splashing into his mouth, but he keeps his mouth open. The next shot lands just beneath his left eye, mixing with the tears on his cheeks as another surge of cum hits him just beneath his nose. There's one last small spurt on his tongue, and he holds his mouth open for just a second to make sure that Vicks is done, before he closes his lips, pursing them tight as he swallows.

His cheeks must be ruddy now, his skin having the tendency to flush red when he's in a heightened physical state. He knows he looks a mess. Some of the cum on his face drips down his chin, and he laps his tongue out to get as much of it as he can, which elicits a laugh from Reg. Oh, they did have their fun, Oswald thinks.

Now Vicks is the one to laugh. As abruptly as it all started, the tension in the room seems to dissipate, and the mood is back to its earlier tone. The three men are smiling, a newfound sort of bond between them all, one that Oswald can only imagine.

"You weren't as bad as I thought you'd be. Get a lot of practice?" Vicks grabs his shoulder and shakes it, lightly. And even though it makes Oswald flinch just a bit, he wonders if that's the way that men like these touch one another, if that's what friendship is supposed to feel like.

Reg goes back to counting the money, and Josh soon follows suit, this man on the floor no longer as interesting to them as the spoils of the earlier robbery. How quickly they fall back into conviviality — and Oswald can't help but laugh, like he'd been holding that sound back the whole time, the feeling of release finally washing over him from the top down. He realizes that he's no longer really hard anymore, and that's almost as much of a relief as the cessation of this little scene; he feels back in control, if a bit worse for wear.

"Hey, a deal's a deal. Your secret's safe with us — right, boys?" Reg looks from Josh to Vicks, and then back at Oswald.

 _Safe indeed_ , Oswald wants to say. _Although you're a terrible liar._

"Clean yourself off." Josh says. "You look like shit."

And Oswald supposes that he really does, and so he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to wipe off his cheeks, his lips, his chin, and where a bit of the fluid has dripped down onto his neck. 

He braces himself against the floor with his right arm as he pulls himself up, his left hand clutched tight around the handkerchief. It's a struggle after so long in that position, but like hell he's going to ask one of these men for help — he still has some level of pride, he thinks, as he makes his way to the wall where he sits back down, in a more comfortable position, at least. He places the dirty handkerchief on the floor next to him, and instead uses the back of his hand to wipe the last slick patches from his cheeks.

"So, uh…what's that?" Reg asks, gesturing towards the ribbon-wrapped box.

"Oh, it's, uhm, cannoli." Oswald says as he continues to catch his breath. He'd almost forgotten what he came here for. "Please, have some, I insist."

The men smile — their day just keeps getting better. Vicks is the one to walk over, grab the box, and there's even a kind of delicacy in the way that he undoes the ribbon. There's four in the box — it'd look suspicious otherwise.

Reg is the first to grab one, and he wastes no time, taking half of the cannoli in one bite. "You want one?" He asks the smaller man, mouth stuffed with the dessert.

Oswald simply raises his hand, and that seems to be enough for them. And as the other two men bite into the cannoli, cream overflowing out the other ends, Oswald can't help but let the edges of his lips curl upwards in the inklings of a smirk.

It's so nice to see a plan come together.


End file.
